Echo
by Lennelle
Summary: They tell him his name is Sam.


Hey! Here's something I churned out in about an hour, please forgive any glaring errors. This is a slight AU set post-'Road Trip'.

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They tell him his name is Sam. He's not sure what he hoped for, maybe a sudden realisation of _yes that's me that's my name_ , but he's just met with more blank space. Sam sounds like it could be anyone's name, it doesn't sit snugly in him like he thinks it should, but it's all he has so that's what he decides to call himself.

The others - Dean and Castiel - stare at him a lot. Understandable, he thinks. Supposedly, Dean is his brother. What he's learned so far is that Dean doesn't like talking much, and when he does it's usually a witty remark. He's intense, too, could probably cut straight through concrete just by staring at it, which is why Sam tries to avoid his gaze most of the time. Castiel - Cas - on the other hand, is probably the strangest person Sam has ever met, which isn't saying much when he only knows, as far as he can remember, two people. Out of the two of them, he finds himself trusting Castiel more. Dean makes him uneasy.

The first thing he remembered was a dock, the dark of night, the soft glow of a street lamp and something warm and tingling under the skin of his forehead. Castiel's was the first face he saw, then Dean's.

"All right. Let me hear it," Dean had said.

Sam couldn't do anything but stare as it slowly occurred to him he didn't even know his own name. It was a real slow itch, like catching fire but realising too late.

"Come on. Just - say something," Dean had begged.

Amidst the steadily growing panic, all Sam could say was, "Who - who are you?"

Now, he stands in an empty, windowless bedroom. It's dim and cave-like, Dean lingers in the doorway and Sam can't help but feel trapped. The room is basic as anything can be, the furniture is decades out of date. There's nothing in here to indicate that the room is occupied by a person. One pillow and one thin bed sheet, perfectly stretched over the mattress. A stack of dusted old books on the desk beside an ancient typewriter. Behind him, Dean shifts, arms folding across his chest.

"Anything?" he asks.

Sam steps further into the room, drops down onto the edge of the bed. "No," he says, and he can't help but feel disappointed. "I don't recognise anything."

Dean doesn't even look at him, seems unable to. He nods as if it's the answer he'd expected. "I'll leave you to - you know. Think and stuff."

Sam almost asks him to stay. He doesn't want to be alone, but he doesn't exactly want to sit quietly in the company of a stranger, pinned under Dean's heavy stare. He has a million questions that need answering, but almost all of Dean's answers are somewhere in the ballpark of _it's complicated_. Dean closes the door when he leaves and it falls shut with an echoing _click_ that feels so final that Sam has to check the door isn't locked.

It's almost too quiet, even under the ceiling fan, and Sam can hear a gentle wheeze in his lungs. He coughs a couple of times into his elbow and wonders if he's getting sick.

He's tired. The hard mattress beneath him isn't particularly inviting, but it's all he has. He stretches out across it, finds that his feet dangle over the edge. He closes his eyes and tries not to think, but thoughts of strangers lurking on the other side of the bedroom door has his eyes snapping open every few seconds. His heart is pounding, brain screaming _run._

He won't be sleeping any time soon and ends up back on his feet, pacing the room. He needs answers and if no one will give them to him, he'll have to look by himself.

The first place he checks is under the bed, where he finds a wooden box wedged between the floor and the bed springs. Sam slides it out and places it onto the mattress. Inside is a collection of sorts.

He sifts through the photos first. He recognises Dean and a younger man with darker hair. It takes a moment to realise the younger man is himself, a lot brighter than the face he inspected in the mirror earlier. It's a strange feeling to gaze long and hard at your own face and not recognise even a speck of it. He has to get up and look in the mirror above the sink again, to compare. It's him, it's definitely him.

In another photo he finds two young boys, presumably himself and Dean, and a broad-looking man with hard, dark eyes and a nose that matches Dean's. Their father, he guesses. There's another man in another photo, older and greyer, a worn baseball cap sitting on top of his head. Sam can't guess who this might be - an uncle, perhaps. And at the very bottom of the stack is a faded photo, one of a pretty blonde girl pecking his cheek. He must have loved her if he'd kept her picture all this time, he wonders where she is now.

There are more things sitting under the photographs, a lot of things he can only make assumptions about. A signed baseball; he must be a sports fan. Green army men; childhood toys. There's a shiny gold amulet tied to a black leather cord, but Sam doesn't know what its significance could be. None of it means anything to Sam - even his name feels distant - but maybe it means something to someone else.

He finds Dean and Castiel in the kitchen, hunched over the table. There's a glass of whiskey half-drunk sitting in Dean's hand. The two of them are talking in hushed tones, Sam pauses around the doorway, back pressed to the wall as he listens.

"I don't know if I can fix this," Castiel is saying.

"Maybe we shouldn't," Dean answers.

"What do you mean?"

"Sam hasn't exactly had an easy life," Dean says. "Maybe it's better this way. Maybe we should let him start over."

"We can't do that, Dean," Cas argues. He almost sounds angry, which surprises Sam. Castiel has been monotonous for the most part.

"But maybe we should," Dean says. "I know I'd forget if I could."

"Do you think Sam would want that?" Cas points out. "He wouldn't."

"Sam isn't exactly here to have a say, is he? I mean. It's him, but it's not him. Fuck. You know, I think he's afraid of me."

"Which is why we should find a way to fix this."

"I'd rather he was afraid of me than hating me. If he gets his memories back, he'll hate me. Kevin's _gone_ because of me."

A silence follows, clearly Castiel isn't able to argue that point. Hesitantly, Sam steps around the door, but is quickly tempted to back out of the room again. Instead, he decides to brave it, placing the wooden box down in front of them.

"I found this in my room," Sam explains. "I thought maybe it would make more sense to you than it does to me."

It almost feels like a betrayal, to expose these things to Dean and Castiel. Sam kept it locked and hidden under his bed for a reason, and it's clear by the look on Dean's face that he's never seen it before. Giving this box to them is like giving over one of his deepest secrets, even if he doesn't know what that secret may be.

Dean eases the lid open and peers inside. It's the first time Sam's seen him smile since meeting him as he takes out the photographs.

"That's dad," he tells Sam, holding out the picture of the dark-eyed man. He swallows hard, eyes dashing away before Sam can meet them. "His name was John."

"Was?" Sam repeats, heart sinking a little.

"Uh. Yeah. He died a few years ago."

"How?"

"Car accident," Dean answers, quick as a beat, but it sounds rehearsed. He flips the photo to the back of the stack and points to the older man with the beard and baseball cap. "That's Bobby. He used to be a friend of our dad's when we were young, but they fell out when you were about twelve. He was a good friend to us, like a father."

Sam picks out the photograph of his younger self and the blonde girl. "Who is she?" he asks.

Dean sighs, takes a sip of alcohol and rubs his brow with the back of his hand. "Jessica. She was your girlfriend."

 _Was_ being the key word. Dean is talking about each person in these pictures in the past tense. "Do we have any friends or family left alive?" Sam dares to ask.

Dean drops the photos back into the box. "Not really, except for Cas."

"So... we're just really unlucky?" Sam guesses.

Dean laughs, although he doesn't seem to find anything particularly funny. "You could say that," he says, then takes another sip of whiskey.

"And what about me?" Sam presses. He's beginning to lose any patience he had left, can feel anger beginning to simmer. "You haven't told me anything. You won't even tell me how I lost my memory. Did I get sick? Did I hit my head? What happened?"

Dean isn't listening. He reaches into the box and pulls out the amulet, pressing it hard between his thumb and index finger.

"I don't really know what that is," Sam says. "It was way down at the bottom, I - "

Dean drops the necklace back into the box and gets abruptly to his feet before storming out of the room. Sam stares at the door, mouth hanging open, listening to Dean's heavy footsteps echo and fade down the hallway. He turns back to Cas.

"Did I say something?" Sam asks, bewildered. "What did I do?"

Castiel sighs. "It wasn't you. It was - " he gestures to the abandoned pendant. "It's complicated."

Sam presses his lips together and drops into Dean's vacated seat, trying not to lose his temper. "I really wish you'd stop saying that."

"Sorry."

"At least tell me something."

"I - I don't know if I can."

"Why not?" Sam demands, tempted to break something out of frustration.

Cas finally looks up and meets Sam's gaze. His eyes are the brightest possible blue, and Sam swears for a split second that he sees a spark of something pure white at the centre. "I don't know if you'd believe me," Castiel says.

"Try me," Sam dares. "You know, I heard you earlier. Dean said I'd hate him if I remembered. What did he mean by that? Who's Kevin?"

Cas doesn't say anything, continues to stare at Sam, hands folded neatly on the table. He doesn't seem surprised to hear that Sam was eavesdropping, there even seems to be the smallest hint of a smile that says he's glad about it. Finally, he asks, "Do you believe in angels?"

End

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Reviews are appreciated! Thanks for reading :)


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